There's a Bluebird in My Heart
by 10CentPistol
Summary: There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but Im too tough for him. I say, stay in there, Im not going to let anybody see you.
1. Chapter 1

**Update: Yes. It's depressing. But I promise, if you stick it out, it'll get better.**

* * *

In the grand scheme of things, falling is love is terrible.

You're sitting there on the couch watching Jeopardy and eating grapes.

The phone buzzes.

New Tinder match.

You think back to when you first met her. The excitement of finding someone you were not only attracted to, but shared your same interests. There was a sense of belonging. You never thought youd be in a long term relationship, but she changed you. At first, for the better. She pushed you to follow your dreams. You went back to school, got your degree. She demanded you got back into music, insisted you were good. Great even. So you started practicing every day. Played at a few open mics. Got a couple small gigs. She made you feel alive. There were parts of yourself you could now feel that you never knew existed. Everything was perfect. She was perfect. Until she wasn't.

Tinder match states in her profile that she's a Christian. Great. Also has written that pasta is her favorite food. Yeah. Those are the important things.

Around year 3 things started to change. She became distant. Stopped coming to your performances. The performances she begged you to partake in. At home, she was quiet. You rarely spoke. She'd come from work, shower, eat the dinner you had prepared, and go to bed. Without you. The only time you had sex anymore is when you were both wasted, which was once after a friends party. You used to spoon her. She would push back into your body and pull your arm around her stomach. Shed sigh, contentedly, and whisper "I love you." That never happened anymore. Shed lay away from you in a fetal position and fall asleep immediately. And youd stare at the back of her head with your sad, pathetic eyes, until they closed on their own.

You message Tinder match.

"When you pray before you eat, do you end the prayer with "Ramen?"

You Googled "failing relationship" one night. You knew you werent alone. These things happen all the time. You were sure you could find a solution on the Internet.

One article lead to another, and you found yourself on an advice forum. One person asked "How do you know if your partner is cheating?" Someone answered, "My wife stopped talking to me. We hadnt spoken in months." You try to remember the last time you had talked. "She worked longer hours. Was hardly ever at home." You had looked at the clock. 10 pm. She shouldve been home 2 hours ago. "And when she got home, she would shower immediately."

The door had opened then.

"Hey." You said.

"Hey." She sounded tired.

"How was work?"

"Long. We had a late meeting. Im exhausted."

"I made dinner."

"Great, Im starving. Im just going to hop in the shower real fast."

And that was when you knew. Consciously, at least. In hindsight, you had known all along.

You never bothered to talk to her about it. The lease was up in a month, you didn't bother to renew it. She would come home and see the boxes you had started to pack. At first, curious, you stood defiantly in front of her, waiting for her to ask why. She never did. She had locked eyes with you, and after you had stared her down, she walked away without a word. She knew you knew. There was nothing left to do but go.

You moved back home with your mother for a while. Got a good job, saved up your money. Spent time on yourself. Learned how to live without her. After a year you felt almost back to normal. You made the decision to start over. Transferred to another office a few cities away. Left everything behind. You were different, and you needed a different environment.

And now youre here.

You check your phone. Pasta girl hasn't responded.

You shout a few answers at the TV.

Finish the grapes.

Stare at the guitar in the corner. Youre still too fragile to play.

Stomach growls. Apparently a bowl of fruit isnt a substantial dinner.

Check the fridge. Milk. Two beers.

Search on your phone for a nearby restaurant.

Find a hole in the wall bar that sells fish and chips.

Shoes. Keys. Turn the TV off.

Check your phone again.

Pasta girl has responded.

"Um… no. Wtf?"

Unmatch.

You can deal with religion, but you cant handle a bad sense of humor.


	2. Chapter 2

The bar is indeed a hole in the wall, but the fish and chips are delicious.

"How're we doing?" You're the only customer, sans a girl in the corner near the jukebox.

You look up at the bartender.

"Great. Everything's great."

"Another?" She asks, pointing to your half empty glass of lager.

Everything is half empty lately.

"Sure. Thanks."

You watch as she pours your drink. She's your age, you think. Maybe a year older. Skinny, long dark hair.

"You're not from around here, are you?" She asks curiously. She's nice enough, albeit a little intimidating with her unwavering eye contact.

"That obvious?"

"Your accent is different than the locals."

"Philadelphia. Moved here a few weeks ago." You decide to indulge. It's been a long time since you've had any sort of human contact outside of the office.

"For work?"

"You could say that." Okay, that's enough indulging. No need to go down that road. Keep it simple.

"I'm Effy." She holds out her hand.

You pause at the gesture, weighing the pros and cons.

"I'm... Naomi." The handshake is awkward, her fingers cold and hard.

"Let me know if you need anything else." She looks to your right. "Another, Em?"

The jukebox girl has taken residence at the bar beside you. While turning to face her, she speaks.

"Same thing. Thanks Eff."

Her voice freezes your head mid turn. You've never heard anything like it before. Low, sultry, beautiful.

You scream internally, summoning the strength to continue the path to see her.

Red hair. Short. Beautiful. Big, brown, kind eyes, A Brilliant smile. Beautiful.

Beautiful.

"Hi." She says.

You can't breathe, let alone speak.

"Hi." You choke out.

She continues to smile at you. You continue to stare, attempting to process how something so gorgeous could be in a place as ugly as this.

You see Effy walk by in your peripheral.

"Can I get my tab?" You shout much louder than you anticipated.

"...sure." She replies.

You turn back to the girl. She's frowning now.

"Have to get up early in the morning. At this rate I'm going to hate myself." You tell her, laughing.

"Of course." She smiles, again. A small smile. A fake smile.

 _and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the_ _  
_ _saddest smile I ever saw_

Effy returns with your tab. You pay as quickly as you can, stumbling while attempting to stand too quickly.

"I'm Emily." She says from behind you.

You turn to face her again, pausing.

How can something so gorgeous...

"Naomi."

A real smile, this time. "Hope to see you again, Naomi."

You sit in the car, trembling. You can't figure out what's come over you. You've never been one to run, to blush, to stutter. You've never felt your stomach flutter like this before.

You know nothing other than this:

You can never come back here. You can never see that girl again.

She could destroy you. You know this.

She could destroy you, and you would let her


	3. Chapter 3

"Naomikins! What're you doing tonight?"

It took two days for your blood pressure to return to normal. After leaving that bar your heart felt like it would pound right out of your chest. It took two weeks for you to stop thinking about the encounter; about her soft, doe eyes and her sad smile. It took three weeks to get to today, Friday. You feel somewhat normal, and the office clown is trying to talk to you.

"Not sure, Cook. Probably grab a bite and get an early night."

You like Cook. At first you hated his crude jokes and bellowing laugh, but after a month and a half you have grown to find him endearing.

"Bullshit! Me an my bird are hitting the town and you're coming with us."

"I appreciate it, Cook, really. But I'm pretty tired-"

"So you rest on Saturday! C'mon, babe. I know you're new here, but you need to get out. Let me show you around. I already told Elizabeth you're comin."

"Elizabeth?"

"My girlfriend. So say you will, yeah?"

You still had a season of Broad City to catch up on. And last night you'd bought a new york strip you had planned to cook tonight. And with these thoughts you realize just how lonely of an existence you're living.

So you agree.

You don a pair of skinny jeans and a white tee and head to the club Cook had given you the address of. Its about a ten minute walk from your place, but the warm night and summer breeze makes you wish the distance were further. Its a gorgeous night, and somewhere inside you brews this idea that something is about to happen. This night has potential.

"It's pregnant." You say to yourself and laugh out loud.

You arrive at The Charles, according to the sign out front. You spot Cook by the doorway smoking a cigarette.

"Holy shit, you came!" He sounds genuinely surprised.

"I did." You reply with a smile. You're in a great mood. You don't remember the last time you've felt anything other than utter disappointment.

"Well all right then! You ready to party? Follow me, my girls inside. Wanna shot?"

You follow into the dimly lit club. The stereo louder than need be, but playing the Pixies so you can't complain.

 _and this I know, his teeth as white as snow_

 _what a gas it was to see him_

The art on the walls is unusual, intriguing. Terrifying in a sense; something out of a horror movie, yet romantic all the same.

 _walk her every day into a shady place_

 _with her lips she said_

"Hey luv, two shots of whiskey!" Cook shouts to the bartender. "Where the fuck is Eff?" He spins in a circle, his eyes scanning the club.

"Who's Eff?" Eff. Eff. You've heard that name before.

"Elizabeth, my bird. Call her Effy for short." Eyes still searching the floor.

Effy. The bartender from that night. That night…

 _she said hey Paul, hey Paul, hey Paul, let's have a ball_

 _hey Paul, hey Paul, hey Paul, let's have a ball_

"There she is! Babe, come meet Naomi!"

You turn, and you're suddenly face to face with her.

"Already have." She smirks. "How've you been?"

Your two immediate thoughts are "Shit. I've been shit." And "Christ, what if she's with her?'

"I've been good." You opt for a lie. Nothing new, lying. Lying. Running. You feel like fucking running.

"Where's the little one?" Cook asks, passing out the shots.

"She's around here somewhere." Effy replies. She looks at you. "You remember Emily?"

Before you can answer, before you can lie, she appears behind Effy, eyes locked, awaiting your response.

It's the same stone, statue feeling you got the first time. The buckling of knees and shortness of breath and the drying of your mouth that makes it almost impossible to squeak out,

"Yes."

But you do.

And she smiles.

 _gigantic, gigantic, gigantic, what a big, big love_


	4. Chapter 4

There are moments in your life that you will never forget.

When you were seven you broke your arm. You had just gotten your brand new Razor Scooter and were riding too fast when you turned sharply and flew over the handle bars. You broke your fall with your body instead of your face, which was a plus, but you shattered your right forearm and had to wear a cast for eight weeks.

When you were twelve you got your period. There's not much of a story behind that one; an absolute normal occurrence for pubescent girls. It devastated you nonetheless.

When you were fifteen you started high school, and subsequently, realized you were gay. Four years pining after straight girls and researching the internet's vast array of porno definitely confirmed that you were not a heterosexual. At all. Not even a bit.

When you were nineteen you went on your first date. It was exciting, even though she wasn't, and the food was fantastic, even though she wasn't. You went home with her afterwards and practiced, for the first time, everything you had studied for. You weren't a natural, unfortunately, but the following dates over the next few years increased your confidence tenfold. You still had a lot to learn.

When you were twenty four you fell in love. She said it first, you were quick to follow. You thought you'd be together for the rest of your life. On more than one occasion you entertained the thought of marriage and children, something nineteen year old you would have cringed at. But again, she changed you. For better or worse.

When you were twenty seven you had your heart broken. There were a lot of firsts that year. Your first time vomiting from crying so hard. Your first time drinking so much you blacked out. The first time since you were a child that you really needed your mother. And the first time you finally understood that time does in fact heal all wounds.

Now you're twenty eight, and you know you'll remember this night for as long as you live.

The four of you grab a table in the corner, and shortly after, Effy and Cook leave to get a round of drinks.

Emily sits across from you. You don't know if you're relieved or disappointed in her choice of seats.

"Been a while since I've seen you around." She says.

"Ah, yeah. Work has been insane lately." You counter.

"Really? All Cook talks about is how slow it is." She raises an eyebrow.

Fuck. Fuck. Right, her best friend's boyfriend is your coworker.

"Oh, we don't work in the same department. It's been nothing but crazy over on my end." Smooth. Nice one, Campbell.

"Right..." she smirks. "So, why haven't you come back to The Frog?"

"The what?"

"The bar we met at?"

"Oh! Right. Oddly enough I never even looked at the name." You blush. She laughs. "I... I've just been really tired lately."

"Right..." Again with the eyebrow. "I was thinking maybe I scared you off. You did leave in quite a hurry."

"Oh, no, I-"

"LADIES! ARE YOU READY FOR SOME TAAA KEEE LAAA!?"

Praise you, Cook, and your brilliantly timed declaration.

You each down a shot, and for one, small moment you allow yourself to think that you've escaped the only terribly awkward moment of the night.

"Okay," Effy starts, "Never Have I Ever?"

Or not.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey. Just wanted to thank everyone that's taken the time to read and review this. A few people have mentioned that the beginning was pretty depressing and almost lost them. Hate to say it, but this story will continue to be somewhat depressing. There will be a happy ending, but the journey getting there will be draining. The reason for that is Ive incorporated a lot of aspects of my own life into Naomi's.**

 **Longer chapter this time. Hope you like it.**

* * *

You're drunk, which isn't a rare state for you this year, but it's different than the fifth of vodka you've had the pleasure of killing yourself. You're drunk on tequila, a few beers, a couple shots of whatever Cook had ordered, and her.

Emily.

You're drunk on her smile and her laugh. The perfume she's wearing, the way her blouse hugs her chest in just the right way. You're drunk on her long eyelashes and the faint blush on her cheeks that is most likely from the alcohol, but you're hoping, I mean really hoping, it has something to do with you. You're wasted on the feeling in your gut you get every time she speaks. You're drowning in her gaze.

It's sometime around midnight when you realize how drunk you actually are, and shortly after that when you decide you need to go home.

The night got better. It did. For a brief moment you were worried that Effy's suggestion of Never Have I Ever would lead to a barrage of awful questions; ones you would never admit to yourself, and ones you certainly wouldn't admit to three strangers. You had to keep reminding yourself that they were, of course. And while you wouldn't mind having them as friends, they currently knew nothing about you, and vice versa.

The four of you had kept the game pretty innocent. Cook had never cooked an omelette . No one drank. Effy had never ridden a horse. Cook drank. Emily had never been to the west coast. You drank. You had never seen Game of Thrones. The three of them drank.

And so it went on. The alcohol flowed freely, you regained some sort of composure around Emily. Maintained a decent conversation with your group. You split a basket of fries with the table. You touched hands with Emily while reaching into the basket and with some unforeseen charm you're still completely baffled that you possess, laughed and beckoned her with a "please, you first."

You don't want to ruin it. The night is going a thousand times better than you thought it would, but you know yourself. You know you have the ability to turn anything gold into shit at the drop of the hat, and it's with that thought that you stand and announce your departure.

"What!? You can't leave now, Blondie! It's still early!" Being one to party until the sun rose, Cook couldn't understand your wanting to call it quits.

"I'm tired Cook. Just wanna curl up in my bed." You're slurring. You realize you're slurring and your internal monologue is as follows:

There are 4 stages of Drunk You.

Stage 1 is usually after a few beers or a couple shots. It's the version of you that is on the verge of leaving the state of Buzzed. Conversations stop being forced, your tongue feels lighter, you laugh more, you're no longer completely opposed to hugging. You like Stage 1.

Stage 2 is your favorite. It's the You you wish you always were. Confident, charming, brave. The You that sings karaoke and will ask a girl for her number. Stage 2 will forever be a shining moment of glory in your otherwise mundane life. A painless, anxiety free moment. When everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.

Unfortunately, Stage 2 has the potential to lead into Stage 3, which is hit or miss. 50% of the time Stage 3 you is a riot. You're loud, unashamed, dancing freely amongst groups of people who are, more often that not, not even dancing. But it doesn't matter. 50% of the time Stage 3 you is every teenage cliché of "dance like no one's watching" wrapped up into one. And that version of you is fine. Embarrassing, but fine. What's not fine at all is Stage 3 You the other half of the time. The verging on asshole, cringey, socially unaware You. The "you've been hitting on this girl for 20 minutes and she keeps trying to hint that she's not interested but you're too gone to recognize it" You. You hate that version. Despise it. And it would be the worst, if not for Stage 4.

Stage 4 you'd never hit until this year. For 99% of your life you were under the impression that there were only 3 of you, but a broken heart and a liquor store within walking distance introduced a You you had never met before. A You you would like to never meet again. Stage 4 is black out drunk. Wake up in a house you'd never been too before and you can't find your pants drunk. Finding a newly stitched wound on your arm and can't for the life of you remember how that happened drunk. It's worst form of yourself, and you've made yourself a promise to avoid hitting that point ever again.

Which brings us back to now. You're slurring, which typically starts to happen when Stage 2 is turning into Stage 3. You know if you leave now, you'll be fine. The problem is, Emily has left to go to the bathroom before you got to say goodbye. You hug Effy and Cook, which takes everyone by surprise, but this is who you are right now. You smile, turn around, and start scanning the club.

Not at the bar.

Not on the dance floor.

Check the bathrooms. Surprisingly empty.

There aren't many places she could be, and you begin to think that maybe she had already said goodbye and left. That's ridiculous, you would've been aware of that.

After ten minutes of searching you've resigned to the fact that she's no longer here and head outside to begin your walk home.

And that's when you see her.

Outside. On the corner. With a girl.

A girl that's kissing her.

And she's kissing back.


	6. Chapter 6

**I think I understand why we're losing all our writers here. The review to traffic ratio for this story is... a bit ridiculous. I'm not trying to pander to you but...**

 **I get it now. I used to be upset when authors stopped updating. I myself am a bit of a hypocrite. But, now that I can see how it feels from the other side, I'm definitely going to make the effort to let the few authors we have left know that they're appreciated. We're a dying fandom, people.**

 **Anyway, okay. Here's a thing.**

* * *

"What's your last name?" You had slurred.

At some point in the night Emily had traded seats with Effy. You don't remember the events leading up to it, it didn't matter. Maybe Effy had gone to get more drinks. Maybe Emily had come back from dancing. Either way, when she sat down, she chose to sit down next to you. And in your inebriated state, that had been enough to engage in conversation.

It had begun with asking her if she ever had dancing lessons growing up.

"No," she laughed, "Why do you ask?"

"Jusswonderin," enunciating hadn't been your forte at that particular moment. "You're a good dancer. Great."

She had smiled. "So you were watching me?"

How Emily was handling her alcohol so well, you'll never know. Perhaps she had skipped out on a few rounds. Perhaps she had become immune. Next to you she had seemed completely sober.

You had blushed something awful.

"Uh, I mean, well, no. Yes." What the fuck was the protocol for answering a question like that?

Her smile had grown. "You should dance with me." She had started to stand, gesturing for you to join her.

"No!" You had shouted. "I mean, no. Sorry. I'm a horrible dancer. I just enjoy watching."

"Oh." She had sat back down. There'd been an awkward silence. "So, no dancing. What do you do then?"

And so you had told her. You had never told anyone of your passions except your ex. But being full of alcohol and the question being asked by Emily, you had found yourself more than willing to disclose. You had told her of your music. How you hadn't played in a while but hoped to start again. You had told her of your poetry. How you never let anyone read them, to which she had interrupted with "I'd love to read some one day" and you had countered with, "that'd be nice." You had realized after ranting for twenty minutes that it had been a pretty one sided conversation and asked the first question that popped into your mind.

"Fitch. My last name is Fitch."

"Fitch." You repeated. "That fits."

A curious look had crossed her face. "How so?"

"Sounds like Finch," you had been deep in thought, "Such a tiny bird. And you're a tiny human. It fits."

As soon as the words had left your mouth you had regretted them. You couldn't read the expression on her face. She had said nothing for a minute until,

"You're weird." She had laughed. And laughed. And it'd been glorious and you wished you would've had a binder full of horrible, corny jokes to keep telling her so that her laughter would never cease.

"It's cute," the laughter had stopped but she had kept smiling.

She had called you cute. You'd been called a few names in your life, but never cute. If someone had asked you before that moment what you thought of the word, you would've said you hated it. But coming from Emily, you had quickly developed a new appreciation for it.

"Do you…" She trailed off, "I mean, are you…" She had stuttered.

This was new. You'd spoken with her all night and were pretty convinced she was as confident as they come. More so. Emily seemed to possess an above average knowledge of who she was and what she wanted.

"Areyouseeinganyone?" She'd said it so quickly you had almost missed it.

"Uh, no. No. I'm single." Your heart had been in your throat. Your mind couldn't process how innocent flirting had transpired into this uncharted territory so fast. "You?"

"Would you like to have dinner with me?" She had blushed.

In hindsight, at this moment you had paid attention to the wrong detail.

What you had focused on was, of course, the question itself, and that she had blushed.

What you wish you had focused on was that she didn't answer your question.

In the span of fifteen seconds a few things had happened. First, you'd been elated. Holy shit! She's asking you out. The second, your anxiety skyrocketed. _Holy shit… she's asking you out…_ The third, from behind the fortress of walls you'd reconstructed over the past year, rose your battalion of fear screaming "Don't you remember what happened last time!? You fool! Run away!"

And so you did.

"I would, actually. " She had smiled immediately, which made what you had said next that much worse, "but, I just got out of a pretty long relationship. I'm not really capable of going out with anyone right now." Your vision had been trained on your hands, which had been wringing themselves. "I really like you, and if it's okay, could we be friends?"

You had looked up then, to the saddest smile you had ever seen. Whichever smile Emily chose to don, rest assured it would always affect you greatly.

"Friends. Sure." She had sounded defeated, "That'd be nice."

Not long after that she'd left the table.

 _there is a place in the heart that  
will never be filled  
a space  
and even during the  
best moments  
and  
the greatest times_

Shortly after that you'd made the decision to go home.

 _times_

 _we will know it_

 _we will know it  
more than  
ever_

Somewhere within that time frame, Emily had found someone else to entertain her.

 _there is a place in the heart that  
will never be filled  
and_

And at the moment, you did what you do best.

 _we will wait  
and  
wait_

You pulled your hood up, bit your tongue,

 _in that space_

And walked away.


	7. Chapter 7

**So, shit's starting to get real. For me, at least. This is the part where I start sharing more of my life. It's a bit frightening, honestly. This chapter is short. The story in general will be slow and long. That's just the way I need to tell it. I hope you stick around. I need to get it all out.**

 **Thank you to everyone that's reviewed and messaged me. I really do appreciate it more than you know. I'm not much of a fiction writer, but I'm trying.**

 **Have a great weekend!**

 **PS: this scene takes place after walking home from the club.**

* * *

Assume the position.

Hunched over your desk.

Glasses on.

Bottle of whiskey.

Glass. 3 ice cubes.

The notebook you refuse to trade in for a laptop.

IPod on shuffle.

Radiohead.

 _I'll take a quiet life, a handshake of carbon monoxide_

#2 pencil. You hate ballpoint pens.

A dark room minus one, small lamp to illuminate your words

Close your eyes.

 _With no alarms and no surprises_

Deep breath.

 _No alarms and no surprises_

Let your hand move on its own.

 _No alarms and no surprises_

Let the words flow.

 _Please_

Automatic Writing became your defense against anxiety in the eighth grade. Prior to that you simply dealt with your panic attacks and crippling depression the normal way; curled up in a corner, shaking and crying until you passed out. Your mother found you one night and lo and behold you had your first therapy appointment the next day. You'd been strongly opposed to prescription medications, thus your therapist began teaching you different techniques to fight off the episodes. She taught you a lot, too many to count in fact, but the only one that ever worked was Automatic Writing.

The gist is, you allow your subconscious to get out whatever your conscience self is unaware of or unwilling to let go of. The action has been associated with psychics and Ouija boards and though you don't believe in any of that spiritual bullshit, it's irrelevant; it works. And it's saved your life.

After a few months of using the technique and reading over what you'd read, you slowly began writing more. Consciously. This eventually became your introduction into the world of poetry and prose.

Shuffle to Jeff Buckley.

You moved to Baltimore with a motive. You wanted a new beginning. You wanted to stay under the radar.

Invisible.

 _When I think more than I want to think, I do things I never should do_

You wanted time to yourself. Needed time for yourself.

Wake up.

Work.

Dinner.

Write.

Learn to play again.

Rinse.

Sleep.

Repeat.

 _I drink much more than I ought to drink, because it brings me back to you_

You know by now that nothing ever goes to plan. You feel foolish for even entertaining the thought that it could.

You shouldn't care. You know don't even know her, really. She definitely doesn't know you. You shouldn't care. You made your decision. You told her in very plain English what you wanted. And she listened. You shouldn't care.

You shouldn't.

But you do.

After an hour or so you open your eyes. You've filled three pages with chicken scratch gibberish. It's nothing to be proud of. Nothing that can be put on display. But you feel better. Lighter.

The clock shows 4 am, Saturday morning.

You elect to sleep until Monday. It's easily the best decision you've made all week.

On the way to your room you swallow the last drops from the bottle.

 _That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen._

* * *

 **Figured I should start referencing the songs and poetry I use.**

 **Radiohead** **"No Surprises"**

 **Jeff Buckley "Lilac Wine"**

 **Charles Bukowski "Women"**

 **For those that don't know, "There's a Bluebird in my Heart" is a direct quote from Bukowski's poem "Bluebird." I'm a huge fan of his, so there will be many references throughout the story. I'll try to remember to source everything from now on. If I ever forget and you want to know where something came from, just message me.**

 **Thanks!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Work is slow, so here I am. Possibly multiple updates today if work continues to be slow.**

* * *

 **Monday morning.**

"Friday was sick, Naomi! You should come out with us again this weekend!"

Cook's awfully cheerful this morning, which wouldn't be so bad if you weren't trying to manage a hangover and only halfway through your cup of coffee. Honestly, you don't have the energy for a conversation. You need to concentrate on not dying.

"Yeah. Sure thing." You manage to grumble with a pained smile. _Please leave me alone._

He doesn't. As much as you enjoy Cook's company the majority of the time, you're not appreciative of his presence today, and his total disregard for social cues means he keeps on conversing.

"So, you and Emily huh?" He smirks, nodding his head.

"What!?"

"Cookie's not blind, Naoms. I saw the look."

What fucking "look?"

"What fucking look?" You ask just that.

" _The_ look. The _let's go get it on_ look. The both of you were eye fucking the whole night! So what happened when you left? Don't spare me any details, Naomikins, I'm all ears." He sits down beside you, leaning in to hear what you're guessing is an erotic story involving you and Ms. Fitch.

"First of all, _Cookie_ ," you day with disdain. He's really starting to piss you off. "No one was giving anyone a "look"

"But…"

"Second of all, nothing happened when I left. I went home. I have no idea what Emily got up to." Except you do have an idea, and the thought makes you want to vomit.

"Finally, Emily has a girlfriend, so –"

"Emilio doesn't have a girlfriend," Cook interrupts.

"Well, she had someone. Saw her hooking up on my way out." You recall. "Look, James," hopefully using his first name will drive the point home, "I'm really not feeling well this morning. Can we save this conversation for another time?" _Preferably never,_ you think.

Cook frowns, but begins to stand. "Sure thing, Naomi." He starts to turn away and stops, "… the girl you saw her with, was she tall?"

"What?" Goddamnit, _please leave, Cook._

"I'm just wondering. The girl you saw Emily with, was she tall?"

You try to remember. "Yeah, I guess she was."

"Dark, long hair?" He has a curious look on his face and you're wondering what he's getting at

"Um," you think back, "yeah, she did."

There's a lull in your dialogue.

"Why are you asking, Cook?"

"Sounds like Mandy," he says. "Emily's ex. They broke up weeks ago."

You're not sure how to feel about this new information. On one hand, Emily hooking up with some random provided the possibility that she just needed to scratch an itch. It didn't mean anything. She was lonely.

But, Emily meeting up with her ex meant so much more. She wasn't over her. She missed her. She loved her. You would've just been a distraction. A rebound. Nothing.

You're deep in thought and vaguely hear Cook say goodbye.

You shouldn't care.

You shouldn't care.

But you do.

Another flash of pain passes behind your eyes. _Jesus_ , you think, _this hangover will be the death of me_. You ponder for a minute whether or not your drinking is getting out of hand. Opt to only drink on the weekends now. You've dealt with your fair share of addictions in your life. From ages 16 to 20 you abused an absurd amount of drugs. You're also currently a pack a day smoker. You're trying to quit. Not really trying, actually. But the thought has crossed your mind.

Your phone buzzes.

Incoming text.

Unknown contact.

"Hi, is this Naomi?"

You wrack your brain trying to remember if you've recently given out your number.

You come up with nothing.

"Who's asking?" you reply.

Couldn't be your ex. You changed your number. Your mother? Maybe she got a new phone. No, she would've told you prior to her actually purchasing it. Who –

Phone buzzes.

Incoming text.

Two words that change everything.

Two words that make your stomach flip and have you running to the bathroom

Actual vomit this time.

"It's Emily."


	9. Chapter 9

**Had to cut this one short. Next chapter should be the longest yet.**

 **Poem is "Finish" by Bukowski.**

* * *

Walking into the café, you spot her in the corner. Much like the first time you met her, had you not been looking, you never would have given her a second glance. _That's the thing about you, Emily,_ you think. _You're the flower no one notices until they pick you._ She's mastered the wallflower effect. The ability to remain completely inconspicuous in every situation.

"Hey." She smiles. You're in front of the table now.

"Want to get a coffee when you're off?" The text had read. Once you'd returned from the bathroom you'd had another text waiting.

You didn't. Want to get a coffee, that is. You didn't want to see her. That's a lie. You always want to see her. You'd sat arguing with yourself for five minutes on how to respond.

"How'd you get my number?" Neutral. Safe.

"Effy gave it to me." And Cook gave it to Effy. Of course.

Before you could retort, she'd sent another.

"How was your weekend?"

 _How was my fucking weekend!?_ You were raging. _I barely avoided a break down. I wrote until my hands cramped. I drank until I passed out in the kitchen._

"It was fine." You said. "Yours?"

"Boring. Went shopping with Katie. Had dinner with my parents."

Katie, right. Her sister. She'd mentioned her Friday.

"I wanted to talk to you." Again, double texting before you could respond.

"Ok…" _So talk._

"In person? So, coffee?"

You sit down at the table.

"Hey."

You had agreed. At 5 o'clock you'd packed up your things and headed to the patisserie on the corner. Apparently, Emily also worked close by.

"How was work?" She hands you a coffee. "Black right?"

You'd mentioned in passing on Friday that you didn't add sugar or cream to your coffee.

"You remembered?" you ask, curiously. She smiles shyly. "Work was slow. Thanks for this," you say, raising your cup.

"You're welcome." She's effortlessly beautiful today. Who're you kidding? She's effortlessly beautiful every day. You realize you're staring and quickly turn your attention back to your drink.

"So," she begins, "I wanted to apologize."

You raise an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For coming onto you…" she pauses. "I shouldn't have done that. We get along so well, I shouldn't have assumed… anyway, you were right. We should be friends. If – "

"If?" You hold your breath.

"If that's still an option?" she asks. "I really would. Like to be friends, that is."

Her smile is forced. Fake. You've only known Emily for a short amount of time, but you learned within minutes of meeting her that her eyes and mouth will give her away every time.

She's lying.

"Yes."

And so are you.

"I'd love to be friends."

 _we are like roses that have never bothered to bloom_

"Great." She says.

 _when we should have bloomed_

"Great." You try to smile. It hurts. Your lips stretching in a way they were never meant to bend.

 _and it is as if the sun_

"So," she smirks, "when am I reading your poetry?"

 _has become disgusted with waiting_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10! We're finally getting somewhere. Thanks again for the reviews. I appreciate them greatly.**

* * *

 _Maybe, just maybe,_ you think, _this can work._

Spending time with Emily has definitely been the highlight of your year. The more you get to know her, the more you find that you have in common.

She ranted for almost an hour about Tarantino; how his cinematography changed the film industry forever. How his chosen soundtracks add an entirely new dimension to his movies. That his ability to cultivate an entire scene based solely on dialogue is not only creative, but ridiculously brave.

You sat and listened patiently. You agreed, of course. Tarantino has been one of your favorite directors since you began taking an interest in film. It'd been breathtaking, though, to witness Emily talk animatedly about something she obviously has a passion for.

You interrupt while she's taking a breath.

"What do you do?"

"What do I do?" She asks.

"For a living."

She looks at you strangely. Smirking. "What do you think I do?"

"What?"

"If you had to guess, what would you say my job is?"

She's full on smiling now. It's gorgeous, but you're frustrated.

"I don't know..." You hate guessing games. "Do you work at The Frog?"

She laughs, "No, I don't work there. It's more like a second home."

"You seem to know a lot about cinema... do you study it?"

"Nope." She pops the P.

"Photographer?"

"Nuh uh."

You cross your arms in front of you. "I give up." You state.

She laughs again. "What do you do?"

"I work for a software company. In IT."

"Huh," she looks surprised, "I would never have guessed that."

"What's that supposed to mean?" You ask, affronted.

"No, I'm sorry, I just meant you talk about music and literature so much, I would've assumed you did something along those lines."

"Oh, yeah... I can see that." You shift uncomfortably, "Problem is, there's no money to be made in those fields. Not unless you hit it big. And the chances of that happening are slim to none." You laugh.

"I think you can do anything." She says, suddenly very serious.

Your breath catches as you make eye contact.

"That's silly," you try to lighten the air around you that has become impossibly thick, "You haven't heard me. I could be shit."

"I doubt it," she smiles.

You smile.

"I'm starving," She announces. "Have you eaten?"

Your stomach chooses that moment to sing the song of it's people.

"I have not," You giggle.

"Have dinner with me?"

You're thrown, quickly, back to Friday night.

 _Would you like to have dinner with me?_

"I..."

"Friends can have dinner together, Naomi," she rolls her eyes, "We need to eat. It's an important part of that whole 'staying alive' thing."

You laugh.

"Touché." You stand, "What did you have in mind?"

The answer was 'Italian.'

You followed Emily down the street and around the corner to a very cozy looking restaurant.

"I've been coming here for years now," she'd said as you entered, "The food is to die for."

And she'd been correct. The bread, the eggplant parmesan, the cabernet sauvignon, the conversation; everything had been perfect.

"You still haven't told me what you do," you say as the server brings out a plate of Tiramisu.

"And you still haven't let me read any of your poetry," she counters.

"That seems a bit unfair. I told you what I do!"

She laughs, "I never said I'd divulge my career if you told me yours." She raises an eyebrow. That eyebrow will be the death of you.

It's been like this all night. This borderline flirtatious behavior. More than borderline, but you've dedicated every ounce of yourself to burying it deep inside. Where you can forget it.

 _That's pretty much how we get through our own lives, watching television. Smoking crap. Self-medicating. Redirecting our attention. Jacking off. Denial._

"So, I let you read my poetry and you tell me your job?" You ask in disbelief.

"Those are the rules." She smiles.

You're walking her home.

"I don't recall participating in that rule making," you finally add.

"You didn't. I made the game, I make the rules," she says in a sing song voice.

You know it's meant to be a light hearted comment, but it tugs at you.

"Is that what this is?" You ask, "A game?"

She stops walking and turns around.

"No." She shakes her head, "Far from it."

The energy surrounding you both becomes super charged. You're suddenly aware of just how close you're standing to each other.

You refuse to make eye contact, knowing if you do it would ruin everything.

 _she could destroy you._

 _she could destroy you,_

 _and you'd let her._

"Most of my poetry is really short," You're grasping at straws here.

"I'd still love to read it," she looks over her shoulder, "This is me."

You finally look up. It's a brick townhome on the corner.

"Can we do this again?" She asks.

The night's been wonderful for the most part. You can't think of a possible excuse for why you wouldn't -

"Yeah. We can."

She smiles.

She hugs you goodbye.

It's simultaneously the greatest and worst moment of your life.

You immediately fall in love with her scent, the way she fits perfectly in your arms, the small sigh that escapes her mouth.

You feel weightless and heavy at the same time.

Light as a feather, stiff as a board.

You feel at home.

You're home.

 _she could destroy you,_

 _and you'd let her._

"Night, Naoms," she lets go and climbs the stairs to her place.

"Goodnight, Emily."

Before bed you send out one last text.

E. Fitch.

Finger's trembling.

Mouth dry.

" _we no longer speak,_

 _but late at night I_

 _dare myself to remember_

 _and wonder 'what if,' as if_

 _'what' will become_

 _'because'_

 _and 'because' will_

 _suffice"_

Phone buzzes.

Incoming text.

E. Fitch.

"I'm a painter."

* * *

 **Denial quote is from "Choke" by Chuck Palahniuk.**

 **Poem is from yours truly :)**


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